Things Straight People Don't Have to Understand
by fountainofthought
Summary: Kurt and Blaine meditate on coming out and being themselves, which are not necessarily the same thing.
1. Chapter 1  Blaine

A/N: I seem to really be getting into the character explorations lately. This one was prompted by a conversation with the bff, about what it's like to constantly be thinking about how it's acceptable to act in public. Basically, the coming out, it never ends. I hope you enjoy my take on it.

Blaine had always been a tactile person. At two, his mother had taught him to stay away from the stove by bringing his tiny fingers close enough to a hot burner to feel the residual heat.

"That's hot, Blaine. Don't touch it, ok?" she'd said, holding his hand firmly so he wouldn't get burned.

"Ow, hot," he'd responded, and she'd smiled.

"Exactly, sweetie. Ow, hot. Keep your fingers away." He'd nodded slowly, his attention already being drawn away to the cool smoothness of her palm under his.

In elementary school, math had made no sense to him for the longest time, until his teacher had sent him off to play with the blocks and shapes. Suddenly, piling objects into groups, combining and separating them, he'd gotten it. Math wasn't just squiggles on a page. It was things he could hold and move. Math was something he could touch.

He'd gotten into playing instruments because his dad thought it might still his busy hands. His mother just hoped he'd pick at his guitar instead of his new sweaters. And so he discovered music, and the way his hands could make beautiful sounds.

Singing had been a natural addition, a way to engage his entire being in music-making. Blaine didn't do anything halfway. He played and sang and danced around, because when there was music on, or music he was creating, he couldn't just sit there and listen. He had to experience it with his entire body. He was the music, and it could be hot or cold. It could be a tight, perfect equation or the loose comfort of his favorite wool sweater. It was him, in all his variations.

He was a passionate person – about music and about everything. When he got excited, he would clap and bounce a little, or throw his arms around the neck of whoever was closest. His mother thought it was endearing, and his father at least tolerated his enthusiasm. It wasn't until halfway through middle school that he realized his passion made him stand out, and not always in a good way.

He learned, quickly, that hugging and holding hands and cuddling were things that boys didn't do. He learned to make a face when his mother kissed him in public and to give high fives or pats on the shoulder to show his teammates they'd done a good job. He learned to keep his eyes to himself and change in his shower stall after gym class. He learned that who he was – a hugger, a cuddler, a boy who thought other boys were prettier than girls – was someone he couldn't outwardly be.

He began thinking about every motion he made. He walked instead of skipping. He grinned wryly instead of laughing out loud. He hugged the girls he was friends with and occasionally bumped shoulders with the boys. He still hugged his mother, but only when no one else was around to see.

When he got to high school, he decided it was time to be brave. He told his mother, and then his father, what he'd discovered about himself. Telling them was helpful, though they didn't know how to be. It meant he could feel a little bit more like himself, even if he couldn't show it much to the outside world. Because every time he tried – when he stared a little too long, or smiled a little too wide, or invited a boy when it was supposed to be a girl – the world reminded him forcibly that he wasn't normal, and it wasn't ok.

It turned out that being gay wasn't the problem – it was being gay and being him. Even once he got to Dalton, where there was no bullying and no one cared that he liked boys and they liked girls, he felt like he was wearing a straightjacket, with all that stupid little pun implied. It was ok to roughhouse, to flail around and squish six teenage boys on a couch that usually held three. He could shake hands with a firm grip and get slapped on the back after a great performance. But no one was there to hug him, to pat his hand, or to let him drop his head on their shoulder while they watched reruns. There was no one around with whom he felt he could just be him, Blaine, the kid who liked to hold hands with his friends and who just so happened to like boys.

Which was why the advent of Kurt in his life was more like a hurricane than a breath of fresh air. Kurt, who wore pants that looked painted on and sang like an angel. Kurt, who had sleepovers with his girlfriends and who hugged his dad and told him he loved him every day. The first time he saw Kurt casually loop his arm through David's as he walked ahead to ask him a question, Blaine's eyes about popped out of his head. He was even more surprised when he realized that he was the only one who had found it surprising.

Over the first weeks of their friendship, Kurt continued to be a revelation. He talked openly about the crushes he'd had on a few boys who'd turned out to be straight. He was even friends with some of them, and it seemed to be a vaguely embarrassing but funny running joke between them. Once, when he was running late to Warblers' rehearsal and most of the seats were taken, he slid down onto the couch between Blaine and Wes, smiling at Blaine and patting Wes absently on the knee. Wes had just shrugged and left his arm stretched out on the couch behind Kurt's head. Like it happened every day. Like it didn't matter at all.

Even before Blaine got his act together and they started dating, Kurt was always affectionate with him. He hugged and cuddled and generally made it ok for Blaine to act like Blaine. From their first meeting, Blaine had sensed that instinctively, and had been more himself. And with each day that passed incident free, Blaine felt like Kurt was the one giving him courage. Kurt was the one showing him how to live in the world as the person he really was.

He talked to Kurt about all of it after they'd been together for a while. About how he could make grand gestures, but hugging his closest friends still kind of freaked him out. About how he couldn't reconcile being out with acting out. About the millions of tiny decisions and adjustments and compromises he made every day, as he decided how much was too much, and what he felt like he could handle.

"I do that too, you know," Kurt told him, stroking the back of his hand. "But a lot of the time I just think 'screw it' and do whatever the hell I want." He smiled, that adorable wicked twinkle in his eye that always made Blaine's breath clog in his throat.

Blaine just murmured his agreement and turned his palm up to meet Kurt's.

"Some people will always think you have it easier, because you're not so obvious. I mean, you're not wearing a giant, designer sign that screams 'I like boys!'" Kurt swept a hand out, indicating himself. "But in some ways, I think you'll always have a harder time, because fewer people are going to assume. Which means you always have to decide."

"Yeah," Blaine blew out a short breath. "It's like coming out, all day, every day, in a million little ways."

"Perhaps you could have business cards drawn up. 'Blaine Anderson. Likes boys.'"

"Will you give them out for me?" Blaine grinned and gave in to the desire to cuddle into Kurt's side.

"I'll do you one better. I'll just walk around clinging to your hand so they don't even have to ask."

"Mmmm…you're so selfless." The teasing quality of Blaine's comment was somewhat lost because his words were spoken into Kurt's shoulder.

"I do what I can." Kurt laughed, then pulled back to look at Blaine. "But seriously, I get it. This is one of those things that straight people don't have to understand. But I do. And I always will."

"I know. And I'm really grateful." Blaine leaned up to kiss Kurt, a simple brush of lips, before snuggling back into his embrace.

He was grateful for so many things: a safe school, good friends, and a boyfriend who understood him, sometimes better than he understood himself. But most of all, he was grateful that he was finding a way back to himself, the little boy who knew his world through the touch of his hands and knew he was loved through the touch of another's. He was who he'd always been. And now, finally, he wasn't alone.


	2. Chapter 2  Kurt

Kurt Hummel liked beautiful things.

At five, he learned to ride his bike in one weekend, because he loved the way his handlebar streamers flowed in the wind when he pedaled really fast.

At seven, he designed and starred in the first of many living room fashion shows, his mother laughing her encouragement and appreciation from the couch.

At nine, he learned to see the beauty in a well-designed engine and in the rare smiles that graced his father's face when they worked together on one.

He was an unusual boy, made separate by circumstance and choice. A motherless child, he learned to parent himself. An only son, he tried to bridge the gap between who he was and who he thought his dad needed him to be. He didn't always succeed, but he thought there was a certain grace in the attempt.

It took him a long time to settle into himself, but once he did, he decided to trust his instincts. He knew what he liked, and he knew what worked. If things didn't always go his way, that was no reason to give up or back down. He was fierce, and his certainty was its own form of beauty.

In high school, it took him ages to get ready every morning, as he selected and layered on his clothes as though girding for battle. With each piece he put on, he defended himself with style and form. A shirt might say "I don't care what you think," and a scarf was "I'm proud of who I am." He liked letting fabric talk for him. All he had to keep track of was the right moment to walk away.

But the trouble with armor, he discovered, was that, while it kept the bad stuff out, it also deflected the good. He got skilled at having crushes on unattainable boys, because that was safer than caring. He snapped out sarcastic replies, because after all the best defense was a good offense. No one could say he hadn't learned something from his brief stint as a football player.

Even with all the armor, somehow friends snuck in. The glee club kids refused to be denied, it seemed, perhaps because they could see through him when he sang. He had a heart in there, a strong, beating heart that loved a whole lot of things. He thought that maybe the club could be one.

So Mercedes became the go-to girl for heart-to-hearts. And Rachel, damn her, was actually pretty good for gossipy sleepovers. Brittany liked to pet him, which was a little weird. Santana liked to snark at him, which wasn't, except that she always got this strange little half-smile on her face when they sniped at one another. Puck declared that they were bros, whatever that meant, and Finn attempted to make the most awkward speech of awkward speeches about acceptance and brothers and more nonsense, but Kurt just patted his shoulder and told him thank you, to save them both.

And maybe he let the shields down a little bit in the choir room, but that didn't mean it was safe to go out without the perfect jacket and fabulous boots anywhere else. He had learned the hard way that safety was an illusion he put on every morning, one that fled easily in the face of hate or fear. He wasn't weak, and he wasn't always afraid. But bravery was an accessory he couldn't always find when he needed it.

He went to Dalton, where he traded fear for conformity. He fell for Blaine, who was perfectly imperfect, who seemed to get everything but really didn't understand anything at all. Kurt learned that courage was another word for honesty, for being who you were, how you were, and damn the consequences. He discovered that telling the truth and showing his heart were the scariest, most rewarding things he would ever do.

The first day Blaine really saw him and said all those deliciously ridiculous, stumbling, perfect things to him, and kissed him as though he were the most precious person in the universe, Kurt learned the most important thing of all. He loved beautiful things, and he _was_ beautiful. The look in Blaine's eyes told him so. He was beautiful because he was exactly himself. He knew, deep down, that he didn't need a boy to tell him that, but it had certainly sped up the process. Because now he could see what Blaine saw, and he didn't think he'd need speeches about courage anymore.

So he went back to the place that was home, in all its messy, complicated glory. And once more he layered on the perfect outfits, but instead of shields, they were invitations to be seen, to be known. To give others the opportunity to be themselves, just like he was. He learned that he couldn't force it, and that compassion would get him a lot further than demands. He dreamed big dreams and held his head high. He accepted that the only thing he could control was how he dealt with difficult situations. He decided that confrontation went a lot better when accompanied by a gentle smile and some understanding.

He wasn't perfect, and he didn't want to be. He could still cut people down to size with a few well-placed words. He was still fiercely proud and a little overexcited about things like fashion and musicals. He was Kurt. He had friends and family, and he was loved.

So when Blaine looked at him with stars in his eyes and told him "I love you," he was a little startled, but mostly he just felt warm and right. And he grinned back – his real smile, the one that showed his heart – and returned the sentiment.

He knew, without knowing why, that loving one another would be easy. Forever was something they both recognized. It was a goal they hadn't known they could have until they found their way together. Everything else might be messy, or complicated, or difficult, but the feelings between them would stay strong and true.

Kurt loved beautiful things, and love was the most beautiful thing of all. Now that it was his, he was never letting it go.


	3. Chapter 3  Blaine

It was hard to hate his father for wishing things were different, because sometimes Blaine did too.

He didn't wish to be straight, exactly, but he could see the point about it being easier. There was the bullying, of course – everything from blatant slurs and violence down to the wide-eyed looks of astonishment, quickly masked, when he took Kurt's hand in public. And there was coming out, which had to happen far too often, and watching people's perceptions of him shift with alarming speed.

What most people didn't realize was that he'd had to do it first. He'd had to stare in the mirror at himself and wonder if anything was different. He'd had to take a good, hard look at the American dream and realize it would never exactly be his. He'd had to adjust to a life where movies didn't tell his story, where Hallmark didn't make a card to describe his love, where even the government couldn't decide if he were a second-class citizen or part of a minority deserving protection. He'd never be normal, whatever that was. And even though he'd pretty much embraced his differences, sometimes it was still hard.

So when his father had said he wished things were different, and what he'd really meant was I wish this was going to be easier for you, Blaine got it. He knew that who he was had caused all their dreams of easy normalcy to warp a little. And yeah, there was beauty in that, but that was because beauty was sharpened by struggle. He was walking a difficult path through no fault of his own, and he understood that his father wished he could make it smoother.

His mother's approach was all about PFLAG and activism and talking about what fun she and her son and _his boyfriend_ had at the flea market last weekend when her friends and relatives called to catch up. He appreciated it, he really did, particularly because it meant she took care of coming out to his entire extended family. It was good to be out and proud, but the process of getting there got pretty tedious after a while. But sometimes when she got a little overzealous – like that time she tried to put a rainbow sticker on her BMW – Blaine and his father would share a long-suffering look. Being gay might have changed him a little, but he was still an Anderson. And Andersons – gay, straight, or whatever – just weren't that out there.

Which made it increasingly ironic that he'd fallen for Kurt, of all people. Kurt, who within five minutes of meeting his parents had been whisked away by his mother for the 'grand tour,' leaving Blaine and his father to stare bemusedly at one another over their coffee. When they came back twenty minutes later, chattering happily about some designer Blaine vaguely remembered reading about in last month's Vogue, his father had swallowed a smile and said, "looks like your mother's found a new best friend."

"Apparently," Blaine had replied, with a tiny, bitten-off smile of his own.

"We Andersons need a little bit of energy in our lives," his father had said, and Blaine knew that was his version of approval, and of recognition. He watched as his mother sat down beside his father, her hand reaching out to smooth down the back of his hair. And he grinned when Kurt slid down next to him and absently reached out to straighten his collar. Some things, it seemed, transcended sexuality. Family was one, and love was another.

"What?" Kurt whispered, in response to his grin.

"Nothing," Blaine replied. "I just…they like you. It's nice."

Kurt hummed in agreement, his fingers sliding over to link with Blaine's as he launched back into conversation with Blaine's mother.

Blaine watched Kurt for a while, and then watched his father watching his mother. He saw the love there, the quiet affection, and the wonder. He knew his father didn't totally understand his mother, or always agree with her, but he loved her for the difference she made in his life. And now Blaine could see that Kurt had the same purpose in his. Like father, like son, he thought, and almost laughed out loud.

Yes, the Anderson men liked order and simplicity. They liked things to go smoothly, to be easy, to make sense. The loves of their lives offered none of those things. They created beautiful chaos and gave impassioned speeches and added color and life to every room they entered. And Blaine and his father, Andersons though they might be, wouldn't have it any other way. Because the lives they led with these amazing people they loved might not be easy, but they would be theirs.

Blaine knew that authenticity beat out simplicity every time. Kurt and his mother had taught him so.


	4. Chapter 4  Kurt

A/N: These little character studies are turning out to be an incredibly cathartic experience. I thought this one was going to be super serious and reflective, but then the irretrievable fluffiness got ahold of me, and...well, see for yourself. Thanks so much for reading and commenting and enjoying my writing. I appreciate it more than you know.

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><p>It wasn't until his college psychology class – taken at the ripe old age of 20 – that Kurt realized he wanted to have children. Not just a child, but children. They'd been discussing theories about the importance of birth order, and he'd thought to himself, "at least our kids won't have to worry about being an only."<p>

Two words in that sentence really should have freaked him out, but neither did. And that should have freaked him out too, but at this point he'd accepted that, when it came to him and Blaine, nothing that should be terrifying really was.

They'd only been together a few months when they started talking about where they'd move for college. And they'd barely managed to get through orientation before they were talking about what their first apartment would look like. At Kurt's 20th birthday party, Blaine had casually mentioned something about when they got married, and not a single person who heard him had batted an eye. They were inevitable. Like Rachel and bad fashion, they were meant to be together.

Kurt knew it would all happen eventually. In a couple of months, Blaine would turn 21 and get access to a ridiculous trust fund that would let them buy one of those adorable, tiny apartments they'd been eyeing in Chelsea. Blaine would buy a completely unnecessary and huge leather couch, because you could take the boy out of prep school, but you couldn't take the prep school out of the boy. And Kurt would roll his eyes and somehow manage to decorate around it.

A year after that, they'd both graduate. Kurt would design and perform and be generally fabulous. Blaine would probably end up in law school, because even though he denied it, he wanted to save the world, and that would be a perfect way for him to do it. They'd fight and make up. They'd stay out too late and then go out to elaborate brunches in the West Village. And one day, a few years after that, one of them would mention marriage as more than just a future inevitability.

They'd get married because that's what people do. Because they could, and because they were meant to be, and because as counter-culture as Kurt sometimes liked to think of himself, the Hummels were the marrying kind. They'd get married because they wanted each other forever, and they wanted everyone to know.

And that was as far as Kurt had bothered to contemplate. Because Blaine would be his for always, and that was enough. Or it had been, until that ridiculous sentence, with its presumptuous "our kids" had appeared in his head in the middle of his psych lecture. And now, damn it all, he had a whole lot more to think about.

He was uncharacteristically silent through the rest of class, as he poked and prodded the new thoughts appearing in his head, trying to figure out where the hell they had come from. He was pretty sure Blaine wanted kids, if the way he smiled at the parents pushing strollers in the park was any indication. But they'd never really talked about it, and Kurt had never really thought about it, beyond it being something that straight people tended to do when they grew up and got married.

If he were totally honest with himself, he had thought about it, sort of, when he'd first come out to himself many years ago. Like all other kids, he'd just sort of figured that one day he'd have his own children. And then he'd figured out he liked boys, and he'd understood enough about the mechanics of things at that point to realize that he probably wouldn't be having any children, at least not the traditional way. (The face he'd made at the thought of doing _that_ with a girl had made his dad ask if he'd put sugar instead of salt on the mac and cheese again. He'd quickly schooled his face into a more normal expression and resolved not to think about things like that at the dinner table anymore.)

Of course, now he knew that there were other options. There was surrogacy and adoption. Gay couples made it work all the time. But he'd only ever thought about it in the abstract, so contemplating children as they might relate to him and Blaine was sort of startling. His mind flipped instantly to blurry images of a little girl with his blue eyes and a little boy with Blaine's riot of curls. It was a good thing that class ended at exactly that moment, because he knew he had a goofy grin on his face.

He wandered out of the classroom and down to his favorite coffeeshop, two blocks over. Blaine found him there twenty minutes later, sitting at a table in the corner and aimlessly stirring his cooling coffee.

"Hey, you. How was class?" Blaine smiled at him curiously.

"It was…interesting." Kurt wasn't sure there was a better way to describe it.

"Yeah?" Blaine studied him, his expression open and curious. Kurt loved how he always had Blaine's full attention.

"Yeah." And because they always said everything, even when it might be difficult or impossible or insane, he went on. "How do you feel about children?"

"Children? As in 'hey, kid, get off my lawn,' or…" Here Blaine took a deep breath, and his gaze sharpened. "Or as in having them? Together?"

"Yeah, that last one." Kurt's voice was thin and quiet. He looked down at his coffee, feeling suddenly shy.

"Kurt, I love you." Blaine unwound Kurt's fingers from his coffee cup and wrapped them in his own. When Kurt finally looked up, Blaine's heart was in his eyes. "So much. And I would love to share that with children. Our children. I can't think of anything better."

"Really?" Kurt was reminded forcibly that Blaine really was the perfect man. And he was going to cry all over his perfect man in a damn coffee shop if he didn't pull himself together.

"Absolutely." Blaine grinned, and then turned serious again. "But only if you want to?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I want to. With you. Only with you." Kurt knew he was babbling, but he kind of didn't care. Because Blaine, his Blaine, was smiling at him with so much joy that he thought one or both of them might just combust or melt or somehow cease to be in this plane of reality.

It didn't matter that they were sitting in a coffee shop in the middle of the afternoon. It didn't matter that they were only 20, and what they were discussing wouldn't be happening for years. It didn't matter that it might be difficult or complicated or just plain weird to figure out all the details when the time came. They'd do it together, and it would be perfect, because it would be them. Them and a child – no, _children_ – who would be theirs.

Kurt squeezed the hand that had slipped into his own and looked into the pretty hazel eyes he intended to wake up to for the rest of his life.

"I love you," he whispered. And that was enough to seal the promise they were making to each other, with this conversation and a million others that had come before and would come after.

They grinned at one another foolishly, laughing a little. And then Kurt launched into a story about his morning design class, and Blaine got up to get them both fresh coffees. And life – their life – went on.


End file.
